


avocations

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Banter, F/M, Hobbies, Post-Mass Effect 2, ToT: Chocolate Box, Trick or Treat 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “You know,” Garrus drawls, leaning his body against the wall of her quarters, arms crossed, “when I signed on for a human girlfriend, I didn’t realize I was signing on for my human girlfriend’s weird hobbies, too.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheeana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/gifts).



> Written as a treat for Trick or Treat Exchange 2016.

“You know,” Garrus drawls, leaning his body against the wall of her quarters, arms crossed, “when I signed on for a human girlfriend, I didn’t realize I was signing on for my human girlfriend’s weird hobbies, too.” He eyes her, his visor flashing as he tilts his head. He looks every bit as cool as he thinks he is. And compared to her, maybe that’s true—for what little such a thing is worth. She would say something, but to be honest, she doesn’t mind letting him have this. It’s the only time he gets to truly _think_ he’s cool.

Considering what she’s doing right now, maybe he has a point.

Her desk is cramped and trying to work on the model here is a pain, most of her stuff swept to the corner, her body hunched forward. The light is bad, worse if she turns the wrong way and blocks it. The ventilation sucks, the scent of paint watering her eyes every time she opens one of the minuscule jars of pigment. Space Hamster squeaks constantly, a never-ending source of distraction when she’s got the quick dry cement ready and one chance to get a piece right. “Yeah?” she says, feigning disinterest when she is anything but disinterested. He rarely talks about his expectations of her—of _them_ —mostly focuses these days on how surprised he is she’d stick with him, how lucky he is, how much better at sniping bad guys and junk canisters he is. “And what did you think you were signing on for instead?”

“Anaphylactic shock,” he says, dry.

“Funny.”

She looks up just in time to see him preen, his armor scraping against the bulkhead, ringing out a metallic _schwing_ as he straightens up, his talons reaching up to curl around the collar of his armor.

“I thought so.”

She looks down at the half-completed model ship, bits of plastic scattered around the barebones of the body, uniform gray and waiting for a paint job. A paint job she probably doesn’t have time to complete today. She _had_ invited Garrus to stop by after all. And she really should… “No, really,” she says, twisting on her chair and leaning toward him, elbows braced on her knees. She looks at Garrus, really _looks_ at him. “I’d like to know.”

“It’s nothing,” he demurs, because he’s an asshole and maybe because he’d thought he could get away with it without her questioning him about it. Problem is, she’s known Garrus a long time now and they’ve been through hell together on top of that. Turns things intimate a lot more quickly than they might otherwise be. Not that she’d ever complain about that.

In any case, it’s useful skill: she knows when he’s blowing smoke and when there’s a fire that can be found at the heart of it.

“I see,” she says, sprawling back, crossing her legs, watching Garrus’s gaze flicker toward her thigh. It takes a lot—a _lot_ —of self-control not to laugh at him. She’s forgotten the model at this point, but he doesn’t need to know that. “And is this the part where you pretend Turians don’t have extracurricular interests or can we skip that part?”

Shaking his head slowly, Garrus tilts his head down. On a human, it would look disapproving. On Garrus… it also looks disapproving. “No, Shepard. We spend our entire lives training for combat and ordering one another around and shooting at things. I thought you knew this about us. Frankly, I’m hurt.” He taps at his breastplate. “I thought you knew _me_.”

 _I know you’re full of shit_ , she thinks, beyond pleased with him anyway. “You know,” she says instead of telling him that. Spinning back toward the desk, she plucks up a random piece. “You could help me with this if you wanted to.”

“I’ll, uh, _pass_ on that, Commander.”

Turning her head, she coughs into her shoulder, determined to hide the smile that threatens to form on her face. “Suit yourself, Vakarian.” Pushing herself to her feet, she strides toward him, a different kind of smile on her face entirely. More a challenge, this one, instead of fond amusement. Grasping him by the shoulders, she pushes herself onto her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his mandible, the scar-roughened plate familiar against her lips, well-loved. Against his mouth, she adds, slyly whispered, “Guess you can’t cut it, huh? Model ships a bit too much for you?”

It’s a ridiculous comment is what it is, but she sees the way his throat tightens, the twitch of his jaw. Just a little more… “That’s okay.” She steps back, shrugs, takes another step. “We can do something else.”

“Hold on a second,” he says, and though his talons tighten, wrap fully around her wrist, he is gentle. He pulls her back, reaches for her other elbow to ensure she doesn’t trip against him—always thoughtful, Garrus is, and steady. His attention drifts to the desk, his chin scraping across her cheek as he looks that way. A humming, almost melodic sound issues from his throat. “I don’t have to prove myself.”

“Never said you did.” This time, it’s she who tugs at him, trying to move him toward the couch. She already knows it won’t work. He’s heavy. His armor’s heavy. And somehow he’s always able to dig himself in, become an implacable column of Turian, determined to move only when he wants to. “Look, there’s still that vid we haven’t—”

“You didn’t invite me over to watch a vid.”

“I didn’t invite you over to glue plastic to a model either,” she says. _That just sort of… happened_. Still, she tries to sound innocent.

Tries. And fails.

But Garrus isn’t listening to her now and doesn’t pick up on it. Instead, he walks toward the desk and bends over the model ship. A single talon pokes at it, pushing it around with a deft, delicate touch. His shadow obscures much of the detail n the ship, but when he narrows his eyes, she doesn’t think it’s because he has to squint to see it.

“All right, Shepard,” he says, planting his hands on his hips. “Wanna see me kick your ass at model ships?”

She has no idea how he intends to do that, but she and he have made a habit of accomplishing the impossible. If anyone can kick anyone’s ass at model ships, well, it’s gonna be her. But she’s sure Garrus would give her a run for her credits in the meantime.

“You’re on, Vakarian.”

And if she’s willing to eat her words, call it a draw at the end of the evening, well, that’s just a date night well spent.


End file.
